A Strange Education
by apex-editor
Summary: "Humor me, Mentor, so that you understand what it is to want to obey without necessarily being able to do so."
1. Chapter 1

Heavy footfalls, so different from the stealthy padding of a brother on the hunt, are Malik's only warning before Altair bursts through the heavy doors leading to Masyaf's library, panting with more than just exertion from a morning of sparring.

"Allah above! Do these recruits have no respect?" Altair stomps his way up the stairs to reach the window overlooking the courtyard. Malik continues his research, hoping to avoid notice at the table between two bookshelves. Suddenly, the overheated presence of the Grandmaster is before him, demanding his attention. "Was I ever so infuriating?"

"Yes," Malik says without hesitation, not looking up from his parchment. "I have no idea what you are talking about, but the answer is most assuredly _yes_."

"Malik," Altair growls, and the _dai_ finally looks up to see his lover's face flushed and hands balled into fists. "I do not know what we are going to do with these trainees. They cannot follow even the simplest of instructions! Everything has to be questioned and discussed, as if they are negotiating with me!" He throws his hands up. "Negotiating! With the Grandmaster!"

Malik leans back in his seat, resigned to postponing his own work until this latest calamity is resolved. "Are you certain they are disobedient, or simply confused as to what you want from them?"

"How could there be any confusion? When I say, 'Show me a two-handed defense for an opponent approaching from the left,' how many ways can that be interpreted?"

"Do they know what a two-handed defense _is_?"

"Why wouldn't they? Are you suggesting that Rauf and his instructors are not training them adequately?" The Grandmaster looks ready to take his tirade to the next hapless victim.

"Not at all," Malik tries to calm him. "But it is only the first month for some of these boys. Do you remember forging our own swords and wearing them day and night before we were even allowed into the practice ring?"

"Vaguely," Altair admits after a moment.

"And I must say, unlike their prodigy of a Grandmaster," Malik says with fine, needle-like sarcasm, "many a new recruit, myself included, did not know how to hold a blade when I first arrived. It took time and repeated instruction for it to become second nature."

Altair is slightly mollified but still frowning, so Malik sighs and settles in for a longer discussion. "Now, imagine a young boy, the son of a farmer whose home was destroyed by Templars. He comes here an orphan, having never wielded a knife, and now he is asked to demonstrate a two-handed defense as he tries not to trip over his new sword." Malik rises slowly as he paints this picture. "He is asked to spar with the _Grandmaster of the Order_ , the youngest in the memory of the Brotherhood, when he can barely draw his blade without injuring himself." Malik stands before Altair, satisfied to see annoyance recede behind a thoughtful expression. "Did you ever face ad-Din Sinan in the training ring, brother?"

"Yes. Once as a novice, then again just before my initiation."

"Do you remember what that felt like?" Malik speaks as if addressing a child.

"Yes," Altair answers briefly. "I was terrified." He smirks a little. "Though I hid it well."

"Of course you did," Malik rolls his eyes, "and he was not even much of a swordsman." He dips into his bag of dirty tricks now. "You, on the other hand, _are_. You have never faced off against yourself, so you cannot know how you appear." He steps a little closer, seeing interest spark in Altair's golden eyes under the shield of his beaked hood.

"When you drop into a fighting stance, even our modest robes cannot hide the width of your shoulders or the muscled line of your back." Malik's tone suggests he has made this assessment for more than academic reasons. "You are fluid as the wind and strong as a mountain." He pulls the hood back from Altair's face and smiles inwardly at his sharp inhalation. "And your eyes – ah! They shine as though they are lit from within. You take up the blade as if you were born to it." Malik lets a little huskiness into his voice. "It is difficult not to be awed."

There is a moment of silence, then Altair swallows heavily. "If I did not know better, _dai_ , I would say you were flattering to some purpose." He doesn't sound too upset by the prospect.

"Not at all," Malik demurs, "if I wax poetic over your fighting skills, it is only because I am moved by their beauty."

Altair studies his face once more, searching for the trap, but eventually shrugs. "I suppose you are right. It _was_ a bit unfair to appear unannounced at the morning session." He rubs the back of his head.

"Why not talk to Rauf about the training schedule, so that you can test the recruits appropriately to their level?" Malik suggests. "That way, the novices will have a chance to gather their wits, and Rauf will not be bothered with your inane questions and unreasonable demands."

As Malik's voice rises, Altair ducks his head and pulls his hood back up. "Fine, fine, I already said you were right! I will look into this, for my peace of mind _and_ Rauf's," he grumbles with an exaggerated air, starting towards the staircase.

"A moment, Grandmaster." Altair looks up from the hand on his chest to Malik's contemplative expression. "If I might beg your indulgence, I would like you to participate in a simple exercise." At Altair's skeptical look, Malik elaborates, "A test. Of obedience."

"You want me to – what? Test your obedience?"

In the face of such obliviousness, Malik can either laugh or cry – so he shakes his head with a rueful smile. "Humor me, Mentor, so that you understand what it is to _want_ to obey without necessarily being able to do so."

Comprehension dawns on Altair's face, followed quickly by aversion. "I'm not sure what can be gained by this – "

Fortunately, Malik has been sparring with Altair for decades. "All the more reason to trust me. It will be good for you." Malik leans even closer. "I will make it good for you, _habibi_. I promise you that." He punctuates his words with a delicate lick along the shell of Altair's ear. He sees the interest from their earlier exchange re-kindled in those brilliant amber eyes and knows he has won.

Altair clears his throat. "What would you have me do?"

"Come to my quarters after second watch, prepared to take direction. In the spirit of things, I will judge how well you obey, and construct the lesson plan from there." With a wicked smirk, Malik adds, "Rest if you need to, Altair, that you might be ready for what lies ahead…."

The Grandmaster's eyes flash in remembrance, and Malik can almost hear his retort, but he merely bows with as much servility as he can before turning on his heel and heading back to the main courtyard. Malik watches him go, already compiling that evening's curriculum in his head.


	2. Chapter 2

Malik is not kept waiting long after the call to second watch rings out. He hears the soft knock that Altair uses, then the door of his chamber opening and closing quietly. He looks up from the scroll before him and remarks, "You are rarely so prompt. Eager for your lesson?"

Altair rolls his eyes, and that tells Malik everything he needs to know about how he must proceed. "More that I wish to avoid your wrath. You become out of sorts when you feel ignored."

Malik rises from his seat without responding and paces in front of Altair, hand behind his back in a scholarly posture. He keeps his eyes cast towards the high ceilings and addresses the other man without regarding him. "For this exercise, you will forget your rank. You are not the Grandmaster of the Order, nor even an assassin. You are simply Altair, here to follow my instructions to the letter."

While part of him bristles at being addressed in this way, Altair feels an unexpected dryness in his mouth, and he licks his lips. He hopes that Malik doesn't realize how much he enjoys the _dai's_ pedantic tendencies, lest he have no respite from them.

His inner monologue has kept Altair from speaking, which, he notes sourly, bring a satisfied expression to Malik's face. "You are able to hold your tongue, at least. Let us begin, then." Malik walks over to his chair once again, pulling it out and seating himself. He leans back against the ornately carved back, undoes the ties on his breeches, and spreads his legs. The _dai_ takes himself in hand and begins to stroke himself slowly, his cock gradually filling and rising under his controlled ministrations. Malik breathes out a sigh, but his brown eyes are still sharp.

Altair has not moved from his place in the center of the room, watching this display with a mixture of avarice and bemusement. Malik observes him expectantly as a moment passes, then another. Finally he says, with a wealth of irritation in his voice, "Well, boy? Have I exceeded the limits of your understanding already?"

Altair balls his fists tightly enough to be painful. "Is the demotion really necessary?"

"Well," Malik says dryly, still fondling himself, "it would be _unseemly_ for a mere _dai_ to be propositioning the Grandmaster in such a fashion, would it not?"

"Un…seemly?" Altair's brow wrinkles as he repeats the word, and Malik has to break role to laugh, deep and a little rusty. Indeed, why _should_ Altair know the word? He would expect a similar blankness in regards to _shame_ and _common courtesy._ Altair is still frozen with indecision, so Malik returns to the task at hand, collecting some of the clear fluid from the tip of his member and smearing it along the length.

"When I told you to obey my commands, I did not imagine I would have to be so explicit," he remarks, voice hitching now. "I suppose I am lucky that you know to draw breath without instruction." He sighs in a put-upon fashion, shaking his head. "Come here, boy. Kneel at my feet and pleasure me."

Altair does as he is told, shuffling forward reluctantly and lowering himself to his knees. Ordinarily, he would have no problem doing as Malik requests; somehow, this atmosphere of subservience has tempered his usual enthusiasm with caution, and Altair finds himself at a loss as to how to proceed. He sits back with a frown, staring at the erection before him as if it is a puzzle to be solved.

Malik snorts. "If your confusion now is any indication, it is no wonder that a strong breeze undoes you." Altair marvels at the ease with which the other man has insulted both his intelligence and sexual stamina in a single breath. He holds up one finger to signal a pause in their role-play, and Malik arches an eyebrow but remains quiet, stilling his hand.

"I am… not sure how to proceed – peace, Malik, that is not what I meant! Only… if my role is to be obedient, surely I must wait for direction from you, yes? But if I am to please you, then should I do what I know you enjoy, even if it requires that I am more… forward?"

Malik leans back with a smirk. "You cannot know anything, only suspect."

Altair rolls his eyes again, safe from retribution for the moment. "Yes, thank you, learned master. But do you understand my problem? If I am too cautious, I face a punishment for my incompetence. If I am too bold, a similar fate awaits me."

"Reflect on that!" the younger man replies with cheerful malice. "But keep in mind, Altair, the punishment itself may _not_ be the same." He holds the other man's gaze for a long moment as the implication presents itself. "Who is to say that one might not preferable to the other?" He watches the quick blush along Altair's cheekbones, then returns to his role. "Now are you going to go about your business, or will I have to do the job myself?" He stops Altair's retort by adding, "Every moment I have to wait for release delays your own tenfold."

Altair twitches slightly at the subtle threat – he has always had trouble being patient – then leans forward, balancing with his hands lightly on Malik's knees, wraps his lips around the head of Malik's cock and allows the clear fluid at the top to coat the roof of his mouth. He spends a little while longer, letting the inside of his mouth grow slick, before attempting to go deeper. He doesn't notice how intent he is until Malik speaks up, his voice gone breathy.

"You might look up from time to time," he says, drawing Altair's gaze to meet his own. "My partners are always willing, and I have no interest in taking from you what others give freely."

Altair's brow furrows and he growls in warning before he realizes it. He can't decide if Malik's goading is just that, or if he has picked up on Altair's tendency to get… _possessive_. The idea of Malik being with someone else, exposed and flushed with pleasure…just… _No_.

"Growl and bark as much as you wish, Grandmaster," Malik states calmly, "We both know which of us is in control."

Altair takes a moment to fashion the angry sound caught in his throat into a moan, making Malik's breath catch. He pulls off for a moment to ask, "I only wished to know if I may use my hands."

Malik raises his eyebrows skeptically, but answers, "If you must."

Altair nods, then returns to business. Instead of using his hand to cover the part of Malik's flesh that is left bare, he grasps either side of Malik's waist and pulls him forward. At the same he relaxes and lets Malik fill his mouth completely so that his lips fit around the base of his length. He moans again, and this time he can feel Malik try to thrust forward, held in place by Altair's hands pressing bruises into the thin skin over his hips.

This time, Altair looks up without prompting, and where Malik was expecting to see shame, or anger, he sees _hunger_ that makes his breath catch and his arousal deepen. Altair continues to stare up at him, those golden eyes bright with desire, each slow blink magnified by his dark lashes.

Malik notes that he is closer to the edge than he thought – and more stirred by Altair's dedication to the role than he would like to admit. However, he knows how to recover this loss of ground. "I see you have no need for further instruction on this point, boy," he says. "Whatever you lack in technique, you make up for with an abandon that the most experienced harlot would marvel at." Altair moans in what might be agreement and does something with his tongue at the base of his cock that makes Malik shudder. "Enough, novice."

Altair either does not hear or – more likely – willfully ignores him, so Malik waits until only the tip of his manhood rests on Altair's lips, then grabs him by his short brown hair and pulls him off with a quiet, "I _said_ enough." He keeps Altair's head at a vulnerable angle, throat bared and breaths coming harsh and fast, to study him. "If the Grandmaster has such difficulty with simple instructions, how can we expect anything more from our recruits?"

Altair's whole body trembles as if he wants to retort but is struggling to find a response. His lips are red and slick and so debauched Malik has to lean in and sample them, bite and bruise them until Altair whines and tugs against the hand in his hair. Malik moves his hand to grasp his jaw, digging his fingers in hard enough to mark, before he lets Altair pull away. He wonders if the other man is aware that his eyes have gone dark, only the thinnest rim of gold left visible in the flickering light from the wall sconces.

"Do not worry, Altair, the lesson is not yet complete." He runs his thumb possessively over that mouth once more before gesturing to his bed. "You will have your release, whether you deserve it or not." He smiles at the injured expression on his lover's face. "Go on, remove your robes and lay on your back."

He turns away to find the bottle of almond oil in his bedside alcove and looks back to see Altair, for once, has obeyed him with alacrity. He holds the bottle out to Altair and says, "Drip some onto my palm, and coat my fingers well." At his quizzical look, Malik responds, "I am going to use my fingers on you. This is new to us both, so I will go slowly," he hastens to add as Altair goes tense, "and that is all I will do tonight." Altair is still nervous but trying valiantly to hide it, so Malik says, "Trust me, _habibi_ , you will enjoy it or I will stop."

Altair takes a deep breath, then nods. Malik gives him a brief, warm look before dipping his head to lick at the head of Altair's member, helping him to relax. It is distracting enough that he tenses when Malik's finger strokes against his entrance, but he doesn't pull away. Malik sinks down lower on him and hums his approval.

Feeling Altair loosen further, Malik presses in with care, watching his partner closely for any reaction. He gets one finger in to the second knuckle, then pulls back and re-enters with two fingers. Altair takes a moment to appreciate his caution when Malik's fingers hit something that sparks lightning along his nerves.

" _Ah_ , there! What was that?" he pants out.

"I am not sure," Malik says with a thoughtful frown. He rubs that spot again, and Altair jumps. "I wonder what that could be."

"I do not know but – _oh_ …" Altair looks up to see Malik's thoughtful expression melt into a devious smile, and he leans forward to smack the other man in the shoulder. " _Himaar!"(1)_ His incredulous laugh ends in a gasp. "I thought you had never done this before!"

"What, fucked the Grandmaster of the Assassin Order?" Malik queries innocently, and the curse makes Altair's eyes widen. "You may be assured I have not. Fucked a man? _That_ I have done." He presses in again, and that, in combination with the crude language, makes Altair jerk and moan. It is as if there is a fire smoldering at the base of his spine, and he feels the pleasure of it curl upwards, dark and sinuous like smoke.

"Look at you, moaning and writhing like a harem girl with nothing but my fingers," Malik says, voice rich with amusement. "Just wait until it is my cock inside you."

His words cut through the daze of pleasure, making Altair freeze with apprehension and a heartfelt desire that catches him completely off-guard. He _wants_ it, wants to know more than he thought possible, and he feels completely lit up inside as Malik moves over him and within him, a two-pronged attack that any military strategist would be proud of.

"Please, Malik," he rasps. "Please, do it, _please_."

"Oh, there is no need for words, novice," Malik lifts his head and says easily, as though he is trying to quell Altair's madness instead of fueling it. His hand slows and Altair whines. "You will have what I give you." He looks thoughtful for a moment. "But you may continue to beg, if you desire."

Altair could not have imagined how Malik bending over his cock, ostensibly bringing him pleasure, would coincide with the other man's demand that he submit. Now, with that shrewd, knowing hand on him, Altair comes to understand. Malik's fingers speed up again, finding that magic spot that makes Altair's hips jerk, and his lips tighten as he swallows around his lover's member. "Let go, novice," he hears as if from a great distance, "let go, I have you."

Not even the diminutive is enough to dim the bright light that suddenly expands from Malik's fingers and mouth outwards, encompassing him entirely and tearing a keening noise that Altair has never heard himself make as he finds release.

Once he returns to himself, Altair reclines on the bed, trying to catch his breath. How is it possible that this surrender that he fought so hard against was what he needed, hungered for even now? He can't stop the deep, contented sigh that escapes him as he recalls the _dai_ bringing him to heel like an errant mount, and he fears he may have given something important away.

Little does he know: such understanding is no revelation to Malik. What _has_ caught his attention is how Altair touches thoughtful fingers to his aching jaw, runs his tongue over bruised lips, eyes faraway just before they drift close and he falls asleep. As he wove the web of desire around his partner, Malik had not anticipated that Altair might hunger for a rough hand as much as reward and praise. Truly an educational night for them both, and Malik's blood heats at the thought of applying this knowledge in the near future before he rearranges the both of them on his bed. He lets his unslaked desire fade to embers under his skin, ready for the next opportunity, and follows Altair into sleep.

(1) donkey


	3. Chapter 3

"Allah above, will you not listen to reason?"

It has been some time since that night in Malik's chamber, and just as long since the last time they were together. Neither has brought up the words exchanged or the desires revealed at that time, nor have their interactions changed appreciably, but the knowledge has thrummed within Malik, a banked fire awaiting a gust of wind to set it ablaze.

"I _am_ listening, _dai_ , but have yet to hear anything close to it!"

Naturally, he doesn't have to wait long for a catalyst, because Altair wouldn't be himself if he weren't impossible and maddening and _completely_ oblivious to it. And Malik wouldn't be himself if such opacity didn't drive him mad. And they wouldn't be themselves if discord was resolved not with reasoned discussion, but with shouted insults, makeshift projectiles, and the inevitable transformation from verbal conflict to physical resolution.

"You are wrong, Altair. You were wrong to send those men out with incomplete reconnaissance, and you are wrong not to admit that now!"

Facing off against Altair, Malik considers the difference between insolence and arrogance. Insolence is the province of the young, the brash, the inexperienced – and, in a sense, the innocent. Arrogance comes with experience, with success, with ruthlessness – and it must be earned. The young Altair would curl his lip whenever addressing his fellow journeymen, making it clear the conversation was beneath him. Malik recalls breaking out in a sweat with the effort of not hitting Altair in those moments.

"Time was of the essence! I could not brood over the information we did and did not have. Left in your charge, the mission would have stalled until we knew the inner-workings of the Templars' laundry service, but we would have been too late to hold the fortress at Aleppo!"

The current Altair – _Grandmaster of the Order –_ just watches him with those sharp golden eyes, constantly assessing and probing for weak points, chinks in his armor, opportunities to bring him to his knees. Malik would be lying if he said he was not doing the same thing – and if their interactions did not make him sweat for an entirely different reason.

Give and take. Triumph and surrender. There is always an element of battle in their coupling, a result of too much training and too much history between them to allow anything less.

"That suggests that Rashid and his brethren are incapable of defending themselves – or, at least, less capable than _you_. And as I _know_ that this is not the case, you are a liar, or an imbecile. Either way, you are not to be trusted."

It always surprises Altair when he sees the fierce scowl on Malik's face when he says or does something objectionable. That a grown man can feel such strong emotion is strange. But in the same way that Altair seems to be the only one capable of generating such a response so regularly, it is true that Malik has the ability to get under his skin in a way no other person can match.

"Malik, stop this at once," Altair says in his most imperious tone. He knows he can get the response he desires – submission, apology, acquiescence – as he has gotten it in the past. He is pulled taut as a bow, the effort of keeping up with Malik adding to the strain of several weeks planning and overseeing this high-risk mission that has prevented any sort of physical release. "You forget yourself."

Apparently, there is something… off… about his delivery, as Malik only narrows his eyes.

"You believe you have the right to address me in such a way?" the darker man asks, eerily quiet. It's such an odd question for a _dai_ to direct towards the Grandmaster that Altair's anger is derailed by confusion. "You who have single-handedly turned 'Grandmaster' into another word for 'simpleton'?" Malik steps closer, eyes still narrowed but with a small smile on his lips. "Your _request_ would carry more weight if not for the tremor in your voice."

While he tries to think of a response, Altair makes note of two things: using the mantle of his office when his bluff is called weakens him; and Malik has never, _ever_ given him the response he believes he wants.

He thanks his _dai_ for the lesson, even as he watches the man's slow advance and his own face grows heated. Surely he should not permit this: the Grandmaster of the Assassin Order being pinned to the wall by a one-armed subordinate and his own aching desire might be considered - what was that word Malik used? - _unseeml_ y. He's not sure how Malik has managed to grasp both of his wrists above his head in one capable hand, but he can't bring himself to break away. To do so would mean losing the throbbing ache in his chest, pooling in his pelvis and radiating into the stump of his ring finger, and that is more than he can manage.

He is snatched from his thoughts by a sharp bite over the hammering pulse in his neck and a murmured reprimand. "It is always evident when you are thinking too much, novice – your pained expression gives it away." Altair bares his teeth reflexively and feels Malik grin against his throat. "Why can you not demonstrate the same effort outside the bedchamber?"

Malik knows perfectly well that Altair is in no condition to answer him, that those clever lips and warm breath against that vulnerable place makes lust roil like a storm-tossed ocean in his belly. The _dai_ has always made an example of his weakness, even if there is none but the two of them to witness it.

"You will look at me only when directed," Malik speaks into his ear, a subtle threat wreathing his words. He bites once more along the curve of Altair's neck, sending a jolt through him, and Altair moans as that lithe tongue pushes the hurt deeper. The _dai_ releases Altair's hands and retreats a few steps. "Your hands will remain behind your back."

As if drawn by a lodestone, Altair's eyes drop to the floor of the bureau, breath coming in short pants and hands behind him as commanded. Distantly he is irritated with his easy compliance, but that voice is growing fainter by the moment, drowned out by the force of nature that is Malik and his own complicit desire.

He feels a finger, calloused and warm, under his chin, lifting his gaze to the other man. Malik seems to be looking down at him, which is odd given that Altair is taller. But he feels so small, so powerless, and so _thankful_ that he doesn't have to ask for what he needs.

Regardless of his philosophical meanderings, the scrutiny in those dark eyes is piercing, even if the hand cradling his face is gentle. His breaths come quick and uneven, and only become more ragged when the back of that same hand dashes him across the face without warning, snapping his head to the side and splitting his lip.

It takes him a moment to catch his breath, the taste of his own blood re-centering him. He lets bravado mask his growing desire, meeting Malik's coolly assessing gaze. "Harder, Malik," Altair growls, "I will not break." He sets his jaw, expecting another blow for keeping eye contact and speaking out of turn. But Malik only looks at him, amused and self-assured as he sees Altair's pupils expand in that tell-tale way.

"It is early yet, Altair."

He sees the other man move towards him and braces himself – so he is defenseless against the calm press of lips against his own after so long. But the absence of force doesn't mean his breath isn't stolen. Indeed, the unhurried intensity of the kiss – as though the entirety of Malik's formidable intellect is studying every minute detail of his mouth – has him reeling. He barely registers the press of warm fingers along the line of his jaw before they dig into bone and Malik slams his head against the wall, holding his face against the rough stone.

"I warned you – did I not? – that I expected obedience? You knew that if you could not control your will, I would break it?" Malik whispers hotly as he licks a slow, deliberate line along the fluttering pulse in his neck to the hidden skin behind his ear before Altair jerks his head out of his grasp.

"I am an assassin," Altair responds, eyes alight and chin lifted. "I take such threats as a challenge."

His left hand, where it has slipped from behind his back, is gripped tightly against the wall of the bureau. The small bones in his wrist grind against the metal studding of his hidden blade, a reminder of the means to free himself as well as his complete inability to do so.

"Threats are the province of madmen and fools." Malik's eyes crinkle at the corner with his friendly smile, even as he tightens his grip enough to make Altair bite the inside of his cheek. "You will find that I am neither."

Then the weight against his hand is gone, and those fingers– no longer vicious but just as unsettling – move along the expanse of his arm to his shoulder where they rest momentarily before tracing his collarbone. His heart hammers against his ribs – Malik can surely feel it – and he knows his breathing is erratic, too loud and too shallow to be anything but _skittish_.

He doesn't know whether he wants Malik to stop or push him even further, and he can't remember the last time he was so _hard_. "Tell me what you want – and do not bother to lie." Altair's head tips back against the wall, filthy images of what he might be made to do forming behind his eyelids at the contempt he hears in Malik's cultured voice. "Tell me, or this ends." Eyes still closed, Altair murmurs something in a halting voice. "Speak up, you shameless wretch, I must know exactly what depravity to ward myself against."

His breaths come quick as his desire struggles against his pride. Finally he bursts out, "I want to suck you dry. I want you to fill my mouth until I can barely breathe, and I want your release on my lips, down my throat, all over me." He opens his eyes, afraid of what he will see. " _Please_." His breath is slightly labored from unslaked desire and the vehemence of his words. Malik just stares at him, and he marvels that he has finally, _finally_ robbed the other man of speech.

Malik blinks slowly, looks as though he is trying to gather his thoughts. "Oh Altair," he says, shaking his head sorrowfully, "you have much to learn." He glances at the floor – half-acquiescence, half-command. Altair drops to his knees without delay, then reaches up with his hands to push Malik's robes back. He is stopped by Malik's warning noise, and looks up to see him shaking his head. "You will not use your hands, only your mouth." He undoes his own breeches and wraps his fingers around his manhood to position himself at Altair's lips.

It is as if Altair's confession is the first crack in a dam, and he needs no second bidding: he presses the flat of his tongue against the base of Malik's cock and gives a long, slow lick up the shaft. At the first taste of clear fluid, he groans and flicks his tongue along the slit, peering up through his lashes.

When he sees Malik unmoved, he throws caution to the wind and takes him all the way into his mouth, forming a tight seal and covering him with as much slickness as possible. When he hears the small gasp that Malik cannot hide, he gives an answering moan that causes Malik to shudder.

He starts up a steady rhythm, making sure to draw back fully before plunging down the length of him. At one point, Malik withdraws completely, holding himself by the root. Without thought, Altair leans further forward on his knees, whimpering in protest and seeking to draw Malik back into his mouth. Malik looks down at him with a taunting expression, then lunges back in with a feral sound. Altair welcomes him, relaxing the muscles of his jaw, and emits a broken sound of relief. He cannot know how his eyes appear dazed with pleasure, but whatever Malik sees there startles him.

"You are a whore," Malik breathes. He thinks it is meant as an insult, but something about Malik's tone makes it a benediction. If Altair is surprised by his own desires, he takes some consolation in the wonder suffusing Malik's voice. He responds by sinking down on him to the hilt and humming throatily, relishing the words Malik emits without notice, _more_ and _yes_ and _Allah help me_.

Altair's self-satisfaction must broadcast itself, as Malik notices the words falling from his own lips as he nears the edge. He pulls back and focuses on keeping his voice steady, "Remove your tunic and get on the bed." It comes out softer than he intended, and Altair must sense this, as he smirks just a little before pulling his shift off, slow and steady and clearly teasing him.

"Keep your hands behind you." The words are clear and devoid of emotion, the assassin's insolence strengthening his resolve. He has to remain in control, even as Altair raises his hands and interlaces the fingers behind his neck, arms out to the side so that his lean physique is displayed to best advantage. A reminder that Altair is only indulging him, not obeying.

This must be rectified.

"Wait," he says as Altair moves to get up. "You are clearly overdressed." Under the pretense of helpfulness, Malik undoes the tie holding his pants up. "Now go, and your hands will not move from where they are."

Altair rises from the floor, stumbling a bit to avoid getting tangled in the cloth around his legs, and awkwardly gets onto the bed to kick his breeches off. He knows that Malik has done this intentionally, robbed him of his usual grace by tethering him, and he feels momentary hatred for this uniquely personal blow to his pride.

He faces away from Malik on his knees, assuming that this is the easiest position for them both – but he has forgotten that Malik is enough of a pedant to forego convenience when he has a lesson to teach.

"No, Grandmaster," Malik says with inexorable calm. Altair's confusion must be visible in his stance, because the reassurance in Malik's voice sets him further off-kilter. "You will lie on your back."

Altair arranges himself as best he can, reflecting that this will be the first time he will be taken, and – not unlike his first leap of faith – he doesn't feel ready. But instead of stepping forward into the open air on someone else's command, this is of his own making. And instead of Al Mualim's confident gaze, he looks up to see Malik's thoughtful eyes watching him. He thinks of Malik's words, _I have no interest in taking from you what others give freely_ , and that brings him comfort.

Malik will not force him. His only opponent is his own fear.

He keeps his hands under his back as directed, then locks his gaze on Malik's and deliberately parts his legs. Malik's sharp intake of breath makes his anxiety recede a bit, as he watches the _dai_ lick his lips unconsciously. The expression on Malik's face is enough to make the blood rise under his skin, the flush spreading from his face downwards. Malik's gaze grows even hungrier, and he fumbles for the oil on the bedside table. Altair's moment of triumph lasts until Malik closes his eyes and visibly steadies himself, kneels easily on the bed, then holds the bottle out to Altair. "Prepare yourself," he says softly, then adds with a wry look, "you can move your hands."

Altair stares at him, but Malik remains impassive. Finally he takes the bottle in his hand and pours it unsteadily onto his fingers. He casts one more glance at Malik, then reaches down, hooking his fingers under his thigh and pressing against his own opening.

"Take your time," Malik says with cruel generosity. He runs his fingers through the pool of oil on the sheets and strokes himself lightly. "I am in no rush."

At the first touch of slick fingers to his opening, he is throwing his head back and clenching his eyes shut. "Eyes open, my lord," Malik reminds him with a sudden, sharp pinch to his hip that makes him bite his lip. "Good," Malik purrs as he presses in a second finger and stretches himself.

It feels like an eternity and only an instant when Malik begins, "You know, _habibi_ ," and Altair has to clench his teeth because the sweetness in Malik's tone heralds some new punishment, "perhaps I have been too hasty." He stops touching himself. "Perhaps you have no interest in what I am offering. I do not wish to force myself on you," he says as if he had never considered this possibility. "So," he drawls, laying back on the bed and resuming his stroking, "if you want it, you'll have to ask for it." With that pronouncement, he levels a pleasant smile at Altair.

Malik wants more than just physical release. He wants Altair's surrender, and Altair is not sure whether to give in.

But Allah help him, he cannot forget the sensations Malik has wrung out of him, and not just the physical release. He remembers Malik's tone of awe as he debased himself, gave in to his own desire to give up control. He wants that again – more than he wants to hold on to his pride, apparently.

"Please, _dai_ ," the words fall from his lips without permission. "Please, give me what you will. I want it, please." He looks down at him and licks his lips. "I _yield_."

Whatever Malik sees on his face satisfies him, as he responds, "You ask as prettily as a harem girl. Who am I to say no?" He takes himself in hand and smiles wolfishly. "Go on, fill yourself up with me."

The _dai_ arches an eyebrow as Altair swiftly clambers on top of him, but thankfully remains silent. As he positions himself with his hands held once more at his back and sinks down, slow and relentless, his usual stoicism abandons him and he better appreciates the _dai's_ wishes. He watches Malik's lip curve when he gasps, hears him sigh in satisfaction when Altair whimpers, sees his greedy gaze as the blush on Altair's skin darkens.

"Is that enough for you, you wanton harlot?" queries that conversational voice from beneath him, even as it is matched by a vehement thrust that makes him keen. The contrast between the fierce motion of those hips and the unruffled tone of voice confuses his already fevered mind. When Malik's rough hand presses his cock against his belly, he doesn't know whether to whisper or scream his answer.

"No need to silence yourself, Altair," Malik assures him, unlike his usual irritable instructions to be quiet. That he is throwing caution to the wind – in a fortress _filled_ with their sharp-eyed, ever-vigilant brethren – makes Altair apprehensive, which in turn feeds his terrible lust. "There will be no one to hear you." _And no one to save you_.

"The problem with you, novice," he begins as he might a lecture to the new recruits, still moving his hips and driving Altair out of his mind, "is that while you are leaping into the fray, you are not taking in your surroundings. When you are talking – so brash, so _certain_ – you fail to listen. Ad-Din Sinan did you no favors when he pardoned your foolhardy ways, so _now_ you must pay the price for it."

He wraps his hand around the nape of Altair's neck to pulls him down, their breath mingling, and his voice is terribly intimate. "I've watched you when your eyes were busy elsewhere. I heard the whispers from your mouth when you thought none were there to hear. I've read the truth in your eyes, your lips, your body. You _cannot_ lie to me, though you will still try. I know what it is you need, even if you cannot bring yourself to admit it."

He watches the desperation in Altair's eyes grow, the sheen of moisture along his dark lashes, and gyrates his hips. "I will have what I want, whether you wish it or not. But I know, Altair, you will give it to me, _beg_ me to take it from you." If his ability to move in just the right way at exactly the right moment is amazing, then his knowledge of when to remain perfectly still, so that Altair is left teetering on the edge and begging to fall, is nothing short of breathtaking. He has no shame left under the onslaught of Malik's lust, exposed and raw.

Altair whines – ah, he's so _close_ – and his hands clench behind him. Malik has the temerity to ask, "Do you want to touch yourself, novice?" Before Altair can nod, or move his hands, or form a response, Malik pulls them close again and whispers into his mouth, "Because you don't need it, deviant that you are. All you need is _this_."

He grabs Altair by the hip, instructs him to "grab my shoulders, _habibi,_ " and then he is all smooth strokes and sinuous hips. The constant stimulation to his core and the unexpected possessiveness in Malik's eyes conspire to sweep him into the blaze. And when the _dai_ mutters between clenched teeth, "I told you, did I not? All it would take is my cock inside you, and you would finally be satisfied," he has a moment to gasp out _fuck, Malik_ before he is done. There is no place on his body that isn't caught up in the feeling, and instead of the instant of blinding pleasure he is used to, this builds slower, deeper, like a wave that crests and pulls him under, leaving him gasping and moaning, unable to keep himself upright.

"Yes, Altair," Malik hisses, his eyes darkening at this display. "I have you. You are mine, and mine alone." Apparently Malik has been riding the edge of control closer than Altair had realized, because his hips are pushing even more insistently into the skin of Altair's thighs and making him whimper at the overstimulation.

"Mine," Malik gasps, his normally cultured voice hoarse and pleading. "Altair," he moans, his voice cracking, "I can't –… Please, I have to –"

"Yes, I am yours," Altair whispers, "use me as you wish."

Malik immediately flips them over and grasps Altair at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, fingers digging in enough to hurt, using the added leverage to slide Altair up the bed, really pound into him, hard and fast enough that Altair can't breathe, can't think, can only wrap his legs tighter around him and whimper, "Yes, yes, let me, please…"

Malik gets his hand on the underside of Altair's thigh, pushing it up and back. The new angle makes him shudder, and even though he cannot orgasm again so soon, it draws out his climax like another wave building within him, heady enough that he almost misses the sight of Malik, flushed and wild-eyed and lost to pleasure, finally pushing deep and freezing as his body empties itself.

Altair is peripherally aware of Malik pulling away just far enough to sprawl next to him on the bed, but he is too busy catching his breath and collecting his senses to say anything. Fortunately, Malik seems similarly affected, and they are left with blessed peace for a moment.

"Well," Malik sighs. "That is _not_ how I intended that to go. In any sense." There is irritation, and fondness, and guilt in his quiet voice.

"Is this how you intend to resolve our future conflicts?" Altair asks with more genuine curiosity than he would like.

He can feel Malik shifting onto his side. "That depends." Altair looks over to meet his familiar calculating gaze. After a moment, he elaborates, "On whether this lesson took." He narrows his eyes. "Would that be a problem?"

Altair has to bite his tongue on the vehement _No!_ that has built up behind his teeth. He thinks Malik can sense it when his lips curl upwards, and his own brow furrows. "As long as this is not your chosen method for educating the recruits."

Malik gives that same quiet laugh, dry like rustling leaves. "I am not sure how Rauf would respond to such a syllabus," he says teasingly.

"I am not sure they could afford the tuition, anyway," Altair mutters with a hint of petulance.

Malik shifts closer to cuff the other man on the back of his head, but he misses and ends up placing a gentle hand at the nape of Altair's neck and massaging upwards, cradling the back of his skull in his calloused hand. "Indeed, the price you pay is _astronomically_ high."

He sees Altair open his mouth, no doubt to remark on his poor aim, but then change his mind and lean back into the touch, closing his bright eyes and relaxing into it. After the frenzy that had filled their senses before, the two assassins bask in the calm, marveling at the tiny world that they have created for themselves, where 'Master' really means 'novice,' and 'novice' is just another word for 'beloved.' Where it is possible to be someone's most staunch adversary and most intimate partner. Where nothing is true and everything is permitted.


End file.
